


Necessary Measures

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-09 03:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17993597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Jon's lost two assistants already. He won't lose Martin, too.





	1. Chapter 1

“If you’re so desperate to get him back you could always seduce him,” Melanie says. Her eyes are glittering and there’s a cruel twist to her mouth that Jon wishes he didn’t recognize. “It’s not like he’d say no. Oh, but wait. That’s not something you do, is it?”

“Melanie,” Basira says, a warning and a grounding, and Melanie blinks, the rage fading from her expression. Her eyes grow wide and she opens her mouth but Jon puts up a hand.

“I know,” he says, feeling incredibly weary. “No hard feelings.”

There aren’t any. He does know. He knows more now than he ever did; knowledge keeps seeping through the door in his mind. First it was in drips and drops, but lately it’s been a steady trickle that he’s been doing his best to stanch but is so terribly afraid he can’t.

The thing is, Melanie isn’t wrong.

The thing is, Jon knows how Martin feels about him. He can’t not, now.

The thing is, Jon is getting very good at compartmentalization, and whatever Peter Lukas is planning can’t be allowed to continue.

___________****___________

“You want to get lunch. With me.” Martin’s voice is flat with disbelief. Jon doesn’t mind. It’s the first real emotion that he’s heard from him in ages, and he knew that it wouldn’t be as easy as asking.

“Yes,” he says, and tries for a smile. It must look as awkward as it feels because one of Martin’s eyebrows go up. But at least he looks fully present, his focus completely on Jon and not on whatever it is that he and Lukas are planning.

It only lasts for seconds, however. Martin’s expression slips back into careful neutrality, and his voice is as distant as it’s ever been when he replies. “I-I don’t – that is, thank you, but –“

“Do you want to?” Jon asks, and it’s only when Martin shivers and immediately answers in the affirmative that he realizes what he’s done. Martin does too; he gives Jon a look of betrayal and backs away a few steps. Jon reaches out a hand and Martin stops, but now there’s a mulish look on his face and Jon knows he’s lost him for the day. “I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry,” he says.

Martin’s expression softens slightly but he takes another step back. “It’s okay,” he says. “I would have told you anyway. It’s just, I’m busy. I’m doing a project and it’s taking a lot – maybe some other time. When it’s – when it’s done.” He’s lying. Jon knows he’s lying and wants nothing more than to call him on it, but this time he can feel the compulsion on his tongue, thick like honey, and he deliberately closes his mouth on it, traps the words behind his teeth where they can’t do any more damage.

Martin nods, and gives Jon a smile. It’s small but genuine. “I’ll talk to you later,” he says.

“I’m going to keep asking.” Not exactly what he wanted to say, but better than a question right now. Worth it for the way that it makes Martin’s smile widen before he fights the expression off of his face.

“I really have to go,” he says, and Jon lets him leave, feeling relieved. The next time he asks he’ll get a different answer.

___________****___________

Jon catches him two days later and asks him to dinner. Martin stares at him.

“You really aren’t going to stop, are you?” he asks. He sounds tired. He _looks_ tired; his face is pale and drawn, deep shadows under his eyes. It only strengthens Jon’s resolve. He shakes his head.

Martin sighs. “Fine, then,” he says. “Dinner. And then you’ll leave me alone.”

It isn’t phrased as a question, and Jon doesn’t bother to give it a response. No, he will not. When he leaves people alone they die. Alone is the last thing that any of them need to be. He understands that now.

Dinner is stilted, awkward. For all that they’ve known each other for years they don’t really know anything about each other. Martin doesn’t look at Jon, simply pokes at his food with his fork, eating little. Jon isn’t particularly hungry either. His appetite, never exactly large, has shrunk to almost nothing, and nerves have obliterated it completely. This might be his only chance to pull Martin out of whatever mire he’s stuck himself in, and he has no idea how to do it. He clears his throat, and Martin looks up.

“I-Basira told me about – about your mom. I’m sorry, Martin.”

Martin’s eyes widen a bit before he nods slightly. “Thank you.”

Jon waits, but nothing else is forthcoming. The chatter of the other patrons and the clink of silverware suddenly seems very loud.

“I-“

Martin puts his fork down with some force, startling Jon into silence. “Why are we here, Jon?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why did you even ask me here? Y-you don’t even like me! You think I’m useless. Is this about Peter? Because I’m-I’m doing something _important_. I know you don’t – you think I’m – but I’m helping and –“

“You don-“

“I’m not useless, Jon. I’m –“

Jon gives up on trying to talk to him and reaches out, laying his hand over one of Martin’s shaking fists. Martin stops talking instantly; his hand jerks under Jon’s but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not useless,” he says.

Martin laughs, and Jon winces at the bitterness of it. “Don’t,” he says. “I know. I’ve listened to the tapes, Jon. When you were…gone, I thought – I thought it would help. I listened to all of them. I know what you think of me. So don’t – don’t pretend that you – you –“

He’s angry, hurt, face flushed and furious…but his hand is still under Jon’s, and Jon knows that he wants to be convinced. Wants so badly that it won’t even take much on Jon’s part. He feels a bit bad about that, but he’s also relieved.

“Martin. I did – when you first became an assistant, I thought – but I was wrong. Yes, you – you made mistakes at first, but you – you improved and I was just –“ he sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You what?”

He feels his face heat. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and Martin grins at him.

“Did that hurt?”

“Oh, very funny.” Jon smiles slightly at Martin’s laugh, and suddenly he knows exactly what to say. What Martin needs to hear. “I was unfair. I was unfair about a lot of things, but I’m trying to be better. I want to be better.”

Martin nods. “Alright,” he says.

___________****___________

Outside the diner Jon feels the awkwardness return; whatever had taken over at the end of their conversation has released him again, and he is back to not knowing what to say or how to say it. Martin rocks on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets, gazing down the road. He looks like he’s miles away, and Jon doesn’t like it.

“Are you – Basira and Melanie are living in the Archives, now,” he says.

“Hm.”

“Is that where you’re staying?”

“Where I’m – no. No, I have a flat. Not the same one, obviously; couldn’t imagine sleeping there again after – but it’s nice. And it’s not far from the Institute, so.” He shrugs. He’s talking slowly, dreamily – as if his mind is somewhere else completely.

“Do you – I mean, I could…see you home?” Jon winces. He is…not good at this.

“What? Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” Martin looks his way finally, but Jon gets the sense that he’s not really seeing him. The entire conversation in the diner might as well not have happened; Martin is as removed from him as he’s ever been. He wants to reach out but Martin takes a step back, almost as if he senses his intention. “This was very nice, Jon,” he says, still in that same dreamer’s voice, “but I don’t think it should happen again. I’m very busy.”

“With Lukas,” Jon says, not quite able to stop himself from spitting the name. He has yet to speak to the man himself, has yet to receive one of his infamous emails, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s deliberate.

Martin shakes his head. “I told you. It’s complicated.”

“So explain it to me.”

“I can’t. Not right now. But-but I will. When it’s done.”

“When wha-“ Martin’s eyes widen and he takes another step back. His foot slides off of the kerb and he pinwheels his arms, fighting for balance. Jon gets a hold of one flailing arm and jerks him forward; Martin crashes into him and they both go stumbling backwards, nearly falling before Martin manages to find his footing and stop them both from crashing headlong into the pavement.

“Are you okay?” Martin asks, looking Jon over with worried eyes.

“I should be asking you that,” he says. “Why would you-“

“Don’t,” Martin flinches, pulling his wrist out of Jon’s grip. “Don’t ask me any questions.”

Now Jon is the one who flinches. “Oh.”

“I-I don’t mind so much, really,” Martin says, “but – but you can’t – it’s not fair of you to –“

“No, I understand.” Jon takes a step back, stuffing his hands into his pockets, feeling suddenly chilled. “I wouldn’t-“

“When it’s done,” Martin says, a desperate edge to his voice. “When it’s done you can ask me whatever you want and I’ll answer, I swear, just – just not now. Please, Jon. Trust me.”

Jon looks at him. He could make him tell him everything right now, he knows – it would be easy. But then he’d lose Martin for good. Whatever he pulled out of him, it would cost him Martin’s trust, and while there’s a part of him that thinks it would be worth it – he would know, and he could stop whatever Lukas is up to – he knows that he can’t. His senses that he’s holding on to his humanity by the thinnest of threads, fragile as gossamer, and it would be all too easy to break it, all the while telling himself it was for the best. He thinks briefly of Gertrude. She wouldn’t have cared; would have thought that the loss was worth it. Jon doesn’t want to be like that.

“A-all right,” he says, the words scraping his throat. “I won’t ask. But if I don’t, you can’t...disappear on me again. No more avoiding me. Us.”

Martin hesitates. “I – in order for this to work, I –“

“Martin.” Martin looks up, eyes a bit wild around the edges. “This is non-negotiable. If you want me to keep my questions to myself, this is the price.”

“Why do you even care?” Martin bursts out. His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry, forget I said it, that was rude, I –“

“Stop.” Jon raises a hand, and Martin quiets, looking unhappy. “I need to know you’re all right,” he says. “After-after what happened to Sasha a-and Tim, I need to know you’re all safe.” Low blow, but it works: Martin’s face softens and he nods, however reluctantly. Jon will take it. For now.

___________****___________

“-way to tell if this is the case. Although Harold Kinner was employed as a janitor there, every staff picture is as Mrs. Conway described. The Stranger at it again, I suppose, which means that even if I look there will be nothing to find. I did send Melanie to Mr. Kinner’s last known residence, but as suspected there was nothing there. I don’t doubt Mrs. Conway’s statement but there is nothing to follow up on. About two months after this recording she was found dead in her home. She’d hanged herself.” Jon sighs heavily and rubs his eyes. He’s exhausted. The statement today had taken more out of him than he’d expected – the Stranger always seems to be the worst, somehow. His head aches. He continues.

“Things here are – much the same. Basira has been going to visit Elias. She hasn’t said anything about it but I…knew. I thought about confronting her but it would do little good; she already knows he’s dangerous and she’s choosing to deal with him anyway. And if I said anything, he’d know. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I just hope she knows what she’s doing.

“Melanie is – she has her good and bad days. There are times that she is almost pleasant. Well, pleasant for Melanie. The others…it’s best if I am out of the room during those times. However I did hear her laughing with Basira this morning. It is...good. That she can do that again. I believe that in time she might purge the influence of the bullet entirely.”

“Martin is still noticeable by his absence, although he does send me periodic emails to confirm that he is indeed alive. Perhaps I should have thought of that before I extracted the promise, but it honestly never occurred to me that he might withdraw again. I suppose it was optimistic to think so. I wish I knew where his new office is located; Elias’s office appears undisturbed so it must be somewhere else. I just – I want to see him. I want to confirm that he’s okay with my own eyes. It would be too easy to – but no. I said I would trust him. I have to believe that he’s not – that he wouldn’t –“

A burst of static from the recorder, and Jon knows. He knows where he can find Martin. He stands, scooping up the recorder and putting it in his pocket almost without thought, and hurries out of his office.

He catches Martin just outside the Institute. One look at him and Jon knows that he was right to worry. He looks ill - even from this distance Jon can see the sickly pallor of his face, the circles under his eyes - and he walks like his legs are too heavy; every step takes visible effort.

“Martin,” Jon calls, hurrying the few paces towards him. “Martin, wait!”

Martin startles like a cat, turning to look at him, and for one second he…flickers. Jon blinks his eyes hard and the moment passes.

“Oh, hello Jon,” he says, sounding surprised. “Can I-did you need something?”

“You,” Jon says, not thinking, and Martin’s face goes suddenly, shockingly red. “I mean, you promised you’d stop avoiding me. Us.”

“I’m not. I told you, I’m busy. I’ve been emailing; have you not been getting them?” The brief flare of animation in Martin’s face and voice is gone; he is back to speaking dully, looking drained and distracted. Mind elsewhere. Jon hates it. He reaches out, wraps his fingers around Martin’s wrist, tries to bring him back.

“I got them. But you – you’re not fine, Martin.”

Martin shakes his head. “I’m only tired,” he says. “The work I’m doing – it takes a lot out of me. I just need some sleep.” He tugs his arm, but Jon hangs on.

“I’m coming with you,” he says. He half expects Martin to argue but instead he shrugs, looking disinterested.

“If you like.”

___________****___________

“This is, uh, nice,” Jon says, looking around. In truth, it doesn’t look much like he’d have thought Martin’ flat to look: there are no homey touches, no pictures, no clutter. It’s almost sterile; white walls and bare shelves. There’s nothing to suggest that this is a place that Martin spends any significant amount of time in at all.

Martin doesn’t seem to notice Jon’s scrutiny, or if he does he doesn’t care. He drifts into the flat as though he’s forgotten Jon is there at all. Jon follows him into the kitchen, where he busies himself making tea. Jon finds himself smiling a little at that. Martin offers him a steaming mug first. “No milk or sugar,” he says, voice still dull. “Sorry.”

Jon frowns. “Is there anything here to eat?” he asks, and Martin shrugs.

“Probably not,” he says. “I think there’s takeaway menus on the table, though.” His brow furrows. “Are you – did you want-?”

“You need to eat something,” Jon says firmly. Martin’s lost weight. His clothes hang on him, and while Jon isn’t usually one to pay attention to that sort of thing, he knows that they didn’t always. His face wasn’t always so angular, either, and Jon finds that he likes it less this way. It adds lines that weren’t there before, makes him look even more drawn and tired.  

“I’m fine,” Martin says. “Look, Jon, thank you for walking me home, but m-maybe you should –“

“When was the last time you ate?” Compulsion thick on his tongue, and Jon makes no effort to stop it.

“I don’t know,” Martin says immediately, then realizes what happened. His gaze sharpens and he glares at Jon, fully present again. “You said you wouldn’t.”

“You said you were all right,” Jon steps forward, into Martin’s space. “I told you I was worried, I told you I needed – you lied. If I have to do this to – to get you to tell me the truth then I will.”

“Don’t. D-don’t act like – you keep saying things that – it’s not fair. Not when you know, you know that I –“ Martin stops, breathing hard, staring at Jon with wide eyes. Jon stares back. Thinks about Martin’s eyes losing focus again, thinks about him dimming, slipping, feeding the wrong god. Makes up his mind at last; reaches out and curls his fingers around one of Martin’s trembling hands.

“I’m – I’m not good at this,” he says. “I never was. I always – always mess it up. But I do – I do care. About you. I –“

Martin reaches up with the hand that Jon isn’t currently holding and touches his face, stopping his words. His eyes are wide and wondering. “Can I – is this okay?” he asks, and Jon swallows. Nods. Martin leans forward slowly, giving him all the time in the world to pull away. But he doesn’t want to.

Soft. Martin’s lips press against his carefully, and they are soft. It’s nice. Martin’s eyes slide closed as he presses his mouth more firmly against Jon’s, and so Jon closes his. Presses back.  Tries to match the movement of Martin’s lips with his own, although it’s been years since he’s done this and he’s pretty sure he’s doing it all wrong. Martin doesn’t seem to care, though; not if the small noises he makes against Jon's mouth are any indication.

When they part, Martin is smiling. “I never thought –“ he cuts himself off with a laugh and a shake of the head. “Did that just happen?”

In answer, Jon leans in and kisses him again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly thought that this would only be two chapters, but it kind of got away from me. So now I'm saying four because I believe in hedging my bets, and I am too wordy for anybody's good, much less my own.

It would be tempting to assume that things are resolved now, but Jon has learned his lesson. Martin isn’t to be allowed to disappear on him again.

He’s never made so much effort with anyone before and he isn’t entirely sure how to go about it – he and Georgie had sort of fallen together by virtue of often being the only ones without a partner, and by the time that Jon realized that they were dating he’d been too comfortable and yes, happy to drive them both batty by overanalyzing it, at least at first – but he is nothing if not determined. Besides, he knows that there’s not much that he can do that will make Martin hate him enough to turn away, not now.

It feels a bit like cheating, like peeking through the keyhole of the door that he’s promised himself he will try to keep shut as long as he is able, but it’s for Martin’s own good, and anyway he doesn’t plan to look too often. He just needs to know how to go about the beginning, is all. This is too important to screw up.

“Have dinner with me this weekend,” he says, words more a demand than a question, impatient because he already knows the answer. He’s hovering awkwardly in front of the door, half wanting to stay so that he can make sure Martin doesn’t somehow fade away again once he leaves, half eager to be by himself and run mental fingers over the evening, searching for any loose stitch, anything that he can improve on or use to his advantage.

Martin’s face breaks into a smile. “Yes,” he says, sounding so pleased that it makes Jon’s chest feel tight. It shouldn’t be so easy, he thinks, to make Martin this happy, but he knows that it is. Easier for him than anyone, maybe, and that’s both awful and wonderful.

“Good,” he says, brusque, “that’s settled.” Jon tells himself to turn away, now. Leave. Trust that this will work. Ignore the voice in the back of his head insisting that he has to keep his eyes on Martin lest he somehow fade into the wall.

Martin steps forward, biting at his lip. “Can I-?” He raises a hesitant hand.

“Can you wh-oh. Oh. Yes, yes, of course,” Jon says. He takes a step forward, intending to meet him halfway, show some enthusiasm, but Martin has the same idea and they bump into each other instead, Martin’s chin smacking against Jon’s forehead. “Ow,” Jon mutters, rubbing at the spot. He expects Martin to stumble away making apologies, and is surprised when he laughs instead. Jon smiles; he hasn’t heard Martin laugh in – well, ever, really. It’s nice.

“Try again?” Martin asks, and before Jon can stop himself he knows that it’s something Martin’s read or heard before, some silly romantic thing that he’s always wanted to try, and that he’s nervous that Jon will laugh. He turns away from this knowledge as quickly as possible before more can seep into him. He doesn’t care where Martin’s getting the words from. He does care about the way he’s looking at him, hopeful and still smiling little. Present.  

“Yes.”

Martin’s smile widens briefly and he leans down.

It’s still soft. Martin brushes feather light kisses against his mouth and Jon wonders if it’s because he’s trying not to rush things. Like he thinks that Jon will bolt if he does.

Jon has no intention of bolting.

Resisting the urge to look, to pry, he takes the initiative; presses into the next kiss, steps into Martin’s space so that their bodies press together, and lets his lips part, just slightly. Martin makes a surprised noise before taking the invitation and sliding his tongue inside.

He doesn’t think it’s a good kiss. He’s woefully out of practice and he’s fairly sure that Martin is too, but it doesn’t really seem to matter.  The only thing that matters is that they’re both here. Jon’s mind wanders a little – normal for him – and he thinks about what this will mean. If it’s enough to break whatever spell Peter Lukas has over Martin. Irritation sweeps through him at the thought of Lukas undoing his work, and Jon kisses Martin harder, as though by doing so he can wipe away whatever Lukas has done, whatever marks he’s made, and replace them with his own.

Martin makes a low sound and his hands come up to frame Jon’s face, his body pressing into Jon’s, pushing him gently into the door. Now Jon is the one who makes a noise, not much more than a soft exhalation as his back meets the wood behind him and Martin kisses him again and again.

When they part, they are both out of breath. Martin leans his head against Jon’s for a moment before pulling back enough to look at him, eyes anxious as they search his. “I – was that okay?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Martin’s ears go red. “I don’t want to be – I’m not – I –“

Jon’s fingers are curled around Martin’s sides; he gives him a light shake. “What?” he says, impatient.

“I don’t want to push you into something you don’t want,” Martin says, then gives a relieved sigh, body slumping. “Oh. Thank you. That was rather helpful, actually.”

“Push me into something?” Jon says, bewildered, then, “The tapes.”

“Y-yes, the tapes. I told you I listened to them? Well on one of them – M-they were talking about - I don’t –“

Jon shoves Martin away from him, nettled. “You shouldn’t have listened to them; they weren’t meant for you,” he says, the words almost a snarl. Office gossip, people discussing things that they have no right to discuss. All of it ending in questions that he doesn’t want to answer, always. Treating him like he’s some sort of broken little –

“That’s not what it is!” Martin says, and Jon realizes he’s been speaking aloud. “I don’t think that. I don’t think you’re broken or, or messed up. Well, no more than anyone else who goes barreling head first into every dangerous thing that he hears of, anyway.“

“I don’t –“

“I just don’t want to-to be the one who – I l-like you. You know that b-because you’ve heard it, you’ve heard what-what everyone else has known for forever, and I just- I just want to be –“ Martin stops, shakes his head. “Look, just, just ask me, okay? Ask if it matters. Ask if I think you’re any of those things you said.”

“Do you?” Compulsion thick on his tongue. Martin’s face falls slightly and Jon knows he’s failed the test, failed to prove that he trusts that Martin doesn’t want to hurt him. But Martin’s not the first one who’s thought that and been wrong. Until Georgie it had always wound up becoming a problem. He has to know if this is going to be the same.

But “of course not,” Martin says immediately, like there was never a doubt. And maybe there’s no real way to know that, not yet, but the dubious certainty of the compulsion calms Jon, soothes the irritation and lets him return to rationality. He rubs at his suddenly aching temples and gives a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he isn’t, not really, and he can tell by his face that Martin knows it. Jon suppresses a wince, wondering how far this has set them back. What ground he has lost.

“I – do you still want to have dinner this weekend?” Martin finally asks, uncertain, and the tension abruptly drains from Jon’s body. This is salvageable.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, of course.”

___________****__________

Dinner starts off badly. Neither of them knows what to say, both of them are still raw from their last conversation. They’ve exchanged emails and texts – Jon has made sure that they do, and Martin was eager enough to go along – but this is the first time they’ve been near each other since Jon had left Martin’s flat, head down and hands shoved in his pockets. It feels like the thing between them is more fragile than ever – Martin doesn’t seem to have withdrawn again but he’s been in Peter Lukas’s presence all week. Who knows what might have been said or done?

Jon might look more than he should, to ensure that things go well, but it pays off. They end the evening in Martin’s flat, stretched out across his sofa. Jon’s mouth feels sore and swollen from kissing, and Martin’s isn’t much better, but they can’t seem to stop, going back in for more every few minutes. Already they are much better at it. Jon’s never spent so much time just kissing a person before, but Martin seems to like it and he doesn’t mind. There’s a certain point where his mind goes almost blissfully quiet, and he loses himself to the slide of their mouths against each other, the movement of lips and tongue, the occasional nip of teeth. It’s nice, and even though he can feel Martin grow hard against his hip, he seems content to continue kissing, like he could do it forever. Like it’s enough to just be here, holding him. Jon doesn’t ask, but he does look. Can’t help it; can’t believe that it’s this easy.

It is.

Jon doesn’t stay, but he can see the question in Martin’s mind and knows what he wants to ask. Sees the two of them sleeping wrapped together in his mind, safe and warm, for once with no nightmares. It is a tempting image, even though he doubts that either of them could sleep without dreaming. He considers it carefully, and ultimately decides against it. It would drag Martin farther away from Lukas, he knows, but it feels wrong, worse perhaps than anything else Jon could do to him. So he closes himself off to Martin’s disappointment and pretends not to understand his tentative hints, kisses him again despite his stinging lips and promises that they’ll do this again soon.

He dreams of dirt clogging his mouth. Of trying to dig his way out with clawed hands but meeting only air. And all the while hearing his own mad laughter and distantly, the sound of a calliope.

___________****__________

“You’ve cost me my assistant, you know,” a pleasant voice says at Jon’s elbow, and he jumps, turning to meet twinkling blue eyes.

Peter Lukas looks nothing like Jon would have expected from the statements he’s read, and he’s pored over every one he can get his hands on since waking, looking for something, anything, that might reveal what he wants with Martin. The accounts all have one thing in common: an unfriendly face whose eyes seem to pierce through the narrator’s soul, angry and harsh and unforgiving. But that is not the man that stands before Jon now. The man in front of him seems cheerful and genial, if a bit distant. There’s every indication that he is a perfectly pleasant boss… aside from the way he seems to suck all the air out of the room. Everything around him seems to be slightly dimmed, as though is very presence has leeched some of the life and color out of the world.

Jon swallows. “What-“

“None of that, now,” Lukas interrupts, smiling like a shark. “I don’t think you want the answer to the questions you’re thinking of asking.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “You’d be wrong.”

“Oh I doubt it, Jon – may I call you Jon? I’ve lived a very long time. Seen quite a few things in my time, too. And what I’ve seen is that often the questions that you think you want answers to aren’t ones you should ask.”

Jon ignores this. “What did you do to Martin?”

“Nothing he didn’t ask for,” Lukas says easily. “Well, eventually. Sometimes a little persuasion is needed. But he went into it with his eyes open.” He shrugs and moves to sit across from Jon, who does his best not flinch back. The closer Lukas gets to him the less tethered to reality Jon feels. Sounds seem to fade until all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears. The world shifts, fades out of focus so that the only thing he really sees is Lukas, and even he isn’t clear.

“Stop that.”

“Can’t be done, I’m afraid. You are a lonely soul, aren’t you? Almost as lonely as he was. Too bad you’re already spoken for.” A sly look. “I don’t suppose I could get you to change your dance card.”

Jon shudders. “No.” Then, “Wait, was. You said was. Is Martin -?”

“Finished with our little project? Yes. Congratulations, Jon. You’ve won. I do hope you don’t come to regret it. That would be a shame.”

Jon grits his teeth. He won’t be baited. “You’ll leave him alone?”

“Couldn’t touch him even if I wanted to. Difficult enough to ensure his cooperation in the first place; no chance of me gaining it now. I must admit defeat like a gentleman.” Lukas leans back, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of relaxation. He doesn’t seem upset in the least, not by the questions or by the loss of Martin and presumably his plans. Jon narrows his eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“Now that’s a good question; one I’ve been asking myself. When Elias asked me to watch over this place while he was gone I assumed that it was to give me Martin Blackwood. He has made the occasional gift to me over the years, and Martin was exactly my type, so to speak. But now? Now I think he wanted to see what you would do. I wonder what he thinks of your choice.” Jon blinks, and he laughs, delighted. “You didn’t think he’d stopped watching, did you? A prison cell isn’t going to cloud his sight, Jon. Or stop his plans, as it turns out.” He stands. “I have no intention of sending Martin back to the Archives, you understand. Fraternization between employees is still frowned upon, and he is so very good at the administrative work. Very good with computers; understands all the little sheets and figures. I never really cared for it much myself. And I still need an assistant, after all. But I bear you no ill will.” He holds out his hand.

Jon doesn’t take it. “What were you going to do to him?’ he demands. Compels.

Lukas’s eyebrows go up. “That wasn’t a very good idea,” he says, and then the oppressive silence around Jon intensifies, nearly crushing him. White noise fills his mind, and the color bleeds out of the world to match. His vision narrows to the twin points of Lukas’s eyes, but there’s nothing in them, nothing to tether him to reality. There’s nothing anywhere, nothing that can help him or save him, nothing in his head but the roar of his blood like ocean waves, drowning him. He tries to scream but his voice has left him as well as the rest of the world, and he knows that he’s going to be taken, swallowed by some horrible beast that will hold him in this state forever, until his mind breaks and he can no longer feed it.

A hand grasps his shoulder, and color comes back to the world in a rush, sounds filling his ears suddenly and loudly enough that he covers them, shutting his eyes against the sudden brightness of the room.

“Well,” a voice says, penetrating easily through the other sounds. Lukas. “I did warn you.”

“What – what did you do to me?” No compulsion in the words now, no power. Jon has been thrown beyond that, reduced to a hurt, helpless thing hunching over his own desk, wrapping his arms around himself in a feeble attempt at comfort.

“Not much. Only stopped you from trying to pry the top of my head off and take a look at what’s inside. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.” Lukas pats his shoulder; Jon flinches away from him, still trying to get his bearings. “It wasn’t a bad effort, really. Maybe you’re not as hopeless as I thought.” Another pat and Lukas’s withdraws his hand. It’s like the air is suddenly allowed back in the room; for the first time since Lukas entered it, Jon can breathe easily. When he looks up, Lukas is gone. But there’s a tape recorder on the corner of his desk, gears whirring. Jon lifts a hand that trembles slightly and turns it off. Rewinds the tape. Presses play.

Even after listening to the encounter several times, Jon can’t glean anything from it. He thinks that whatever Lukas had come for, he’d gotten it, but Jon hadn’t been given anything in return.

___________****__________

Martin walks into his office holding two steaming mugs and Jon stares. Blinks his eyes hard and stares some more. Martin offers him a nervous smile and one of the mugs. “You aren’t going to pinch me too are you? Melanie did already and one bruise is enough.”

“Where?” Jon asks, and Martin gestures at his arm, nearly spilling tea all over himself. Jon takes both mugs from his hands and puts them on his desk, then pulls Martins shirt out of the way to reveal a red mark on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to her,” he says, mildly surprised by how angry his voice comes out.

“No, don’t,” Martin says. “It’s fine.”

“She shouldn’t be –“

“What? Angry that I disappeared when she and Basira needed me? Worried that I’m some sort of-of-“

He’s shaking. Jon reaches out, puts his hands on his shoulders. “Martin.”

“No, don’t. I left them. We were all we had and I just –“

The door is open; anyone could walk in. He shouldn’t do anything. He doesn’t have to. Lukas has given up. _Says he’s given up_ , Jon thinks, but it doesn’t matter. He pulls Martin in because he has to, because he started this and because Martin has no one else. Martin comes easily; folding into his arms with a soft sigh. He rests his head against Jon’s shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist, making the embrace mutual. It’s been a long time since Jon has been part of an embrace like this; he finds himself relaxing into it, leans his head against Martin’s and closes his eyes.

They stay like that until Melanie comes looking for them, or perhaps just for Jon. He feels her coming but doesn’t bother to remove himself from Martin’s arms. He does open his eyes to watch her reaction, though, curious. For a moment she just looks at them, and he can see her putting the pieces together, can feel the emotions rolling off of her even before she’s aware of them. Guilt and anger play over her face for a split second before she wipes them both off. “Basira’s back,” she says in a tight voice, and her eyes promise that they will have words later.

Martin makes a startled noise and pulls away, face flushed, but Melanie’s already left. Jon gives him a half-smile and suppresses the odd urge to tousle his hair. He doubts Martin would appreciate it.

“I-I should go,” Martin says. “They’ll – she’ll want to speak with you.”

“You could stay,” Jon offers. “They won’t mind.” He isn’t entirely sure it’s the truth, but he wants him there. Wants him as far away from wherever Lukas has him holed up as possible for as long as possible. Wants also the buffer that he’ll provide between Jon and whatever Melanie wants to say. But Martin shakes his head.

“I have to get back to work. And yes they would.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Martin smiles, then glances at the door. Jon could tell him that he needn’t worry – they’re both seated at Basira’s desk, talking in low voices. It would be all too easy to know exactly what they are taking about, and for a moment he’s tempted, but then Martin’s kissing him, and he turns his mind away from them with intermingled relief and disappointment.

___________****__________

They stop speaking when they hear Jon coming, and neither of them look at him when he enters. Melanie is pointedly looking in the other direction, arms crossed and expression stormy. Basira’s hands are curled loosely around a glass of water, and she’s staring into it like it holds the secrets of the universe. There’s a long scratch running down the side of her face, but Jon barely even gets his mouth open before she’s shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she says. “I’m not going to tell you and I don’t want you to ask. I’m working on something. You know for who.”

Melanie scowls. “I stop paying attention for two weeks and both of you immediately start being stupid. You –“ she points at Basira “-are working for Elias. Have you forgotten what he’s like? What he did to all of us? To me? To Martin? He’s evil, and he needs to be stopped, not followed.”

“I’m not-“

“And you,” she says, rounding on Jon. “What are you doing?”

“I-“

“You can’t toy with someone’s feelings like this. That makes you no better than _him_.”

Jon doesn’t know which him she means. Elias? Lukas? He supposes it doesn’t matter, not really. Guilt washes through him, and it makes him sharp, angry. “It was your idea.”

“No. No, you know why I said that. You know I didn’t mean it.” She shakes her head. “You can’t do this to him. It’s not fair.”

It isn’t. He knows it isn’t, but nothing has been fair in a long time. He doesn’t know how to impress this upon Melanie, though. Melanie who is rediscovering her own humanity as everyone around her is losing theirs. He doesn’t think that she would have cared about Martin’s feelings in this even a month ago. For a moment, he wishes fiercely that it were still the case, and then he banishes the thought with horror. 

“I c-“

“Don’t you say you can’t. What are you planning on doing Jon, pretending to be in love with him for the rest of his life? You have to stop this.”

“Not yet.” They both turn to look at Basira. Her eyes are on Melanie. She places a hand on her arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Not while Lukas is still here.” She shoots an unreadable glance at Jon. “He shouldn’t have done it, but now that he has he can’t stop until Lukas is gone. Telling him now would make him twice as vulnerable.”

“It might not even have worked.”

“It worked.” He doesn’t tell them about Lukas’s visit – even if he did they would say it means nothing and there was no new information to be shared – but he tells them the rest. “Whatever Lukas was doing with Martin required his isolation. He needed to be alone. He - isn’t. Anymore.”

“Yet,” Melanie mutters. She pulls her arm away from Basira and stands. “Fine. Fine. But as soon as we find a way to get rid of Lukas you’re going to do the right thing, you hear me?” She shakes her head. “I thought you were trying not to be a monster,” she says, and then she storms out of the room, back straight and hands clenched. Jon can feel her anger and her guilt long after she’s gone.

“I’m not telling you what I’ve been doing, and I want you to stay out of my head,” Basira says. She’s not looking at him; her eyes are still on the door.   

Jon stares at her, his jaw working. He hadn’t even thought to ask, not with Melanie’s anger and his own nagging sense of guilt. He thinks he probably should have. “Al-alright. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

She shakes her head. “I could say the same for you.”

Jon waits until she looks at him. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Maybe you do. Doesn’t really make me feel any better about it.” Basira pushes the glass away and rises. “I’m going to find Melanie. You should probably leave her alone until she calms down.” She hesitates at the door, looking back at him. “Was it really the only way?”

Jon looks away. “It was the most expedient one.”

“Right.”

She leaves, and Jon suddenly finds himself feeling restless. He goes back into his office and paces, moves things around on his desk. Heads into the main Archives and walks through the rows of statements, picking one up only to set it down. He can hear a tape recorder going somewhere in the room, but he ignores it. If it wants him to read a statement, it’s going to have to point it out. He doesn’t feel like that’s what he’s looking for, though. If he were he could just sit down and wait, but this feels like a buzzing under his skin, a need to keep moving, to do something. He just doesn’t know what.

His feet carry him out of the office shortly after, out of the Archives completely. He walks down halls that he hasn’t traversed in years, not since he’d been promoted. At first he hadn’t had time, and then he hadn’t wanted to. At the time it hadn’t seemed like a loss – he had never been one for chatting amiably in the break room or meeting for drinks after work, and had barely known anything about his coworkers when he’d left – but now he feels strangely melancholy. Perhaps if he had bothered to learn anything about them they wouldn’t be shooting him sidelong glances as he walks by, erupting into whispers as he passes. Jon quickens his pace, hurrying along until he finds a corridor devoid of people. 

He has been trying very hard not to think of anything, so it takes him a moment to realize that wherever he is, he can’t possibly still be in the Institute. He’s been walking too long; he should have hit a wall by now. He hasn’t seen another person since turning down the corridor, and he hasn’t turned again. He stops, looks back. Sees nothing but the endless corridor. A small thread of unease runs through him, settling in his chest, coiling like a snake ready to strike. Jon ignores it. He can get out of this. He closes his eyes and looks.

Nothing happens. His mind is filled with white noise. He can sense the knowledge there, just out of reach, but he can’t get at it, like it’s hitting an invisible barrier somewhere just in front of him. He reaches out, but of course his hand encounters nothing and he lowers it, feeling foolish. The feeling of unease grows, and his hands curl into fists. He has to – he needs –

Jon takes a deep breath and fights to keep himself calm. He forces everything out, forces it away, tries to make his mind blank. Quits trying to look. The odd feeling that what he wants is being held just out of his reach persists, but he ignores that, too. He listens only to the sound of his own breathing; drawing air deeply into his lungs and then releasing it. It’s soothing, and he feels himself relax, finally, his body calming with his mind.

He only realizes that he’s been walking again when he stops. He opens his eyes.

There’s a door in front of him. Jon hesitates for just a moment – there are so many things that could be hiding behind a closed door – then opens it.

He isn’t sure what he expects to find – his mind still frustratingly woolly – but it sure isn’t a normal looking office, not much different from his own, with Martin sitting at the desk, frowning at a computer.

He looks up when the door swings open, and his eyes widen. “Jon? How did you-“ he stands from behind the desk and walks around it, stretching a hand towards where Jon is now leaning against the jamb. “Did Peter –“

“I – I don’t think so,” he says slowly. He feels so tired suddenly, and slightly ill, and he sways into Martin’s hand without meaning to. “I wanted to see you.” As he says it, he knows it to be true. Guilt and worry had led him here, the need to prove to himself that he was doing the right thing. And to be comforted, although he shies away from the thought, knowing how selfish it is. How unfair.

Martin gets an arm around him and leads him towards a chair. “Sit down before you collapse,” he says, pushing him down. Jon sinks into it gratefully.

“Where is this?”

“Nowhere. I mean, it’s Peter’s. He-it’s where I used to h-work.”

“Are you saying that I’m in the Lonely’s – what? Domain?”

“No. And yes. Not exactly. It’s just a space that he-he made for when I-“

“I thought you weren’t working with him anymore.”

“I’m not. Well, I am, but it’s just admin. He really doesn’t like it, and I don’t mind.”

“So he what? Sent you here to create a rota?” Jon rubs at his eyes. It’s a strain trying to make anything out. Now that he knows where he is, he can feel it pushing at him. Looking for a way in.

“I came here so I wouldn’t go back to see you,” Martin says, then colours. “Don’t do that.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Jon says, but he supposes that the effect is ruined by his smile. “You could have. Come back.”

Martin shakes his head. “I had things to work on. I can’t be-I can’t just drop by to see you whenever I – I still have a job to do.”

“Your job is with us.” Jon sighs. “I wish you had stayed. Basira is –“

“Wait,” Martin says. He holds out a hand. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Jon takes the hand, lets Martin pull him up and wrap a steadying arm around him. “Do you think L-he’s listening?” The idea doesn’t seem as far-fetched as it should.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but-“

“Better safe than sorry. Right.” Jon leans against Martin and closes his eyes. “Don’t come back here.”

“Jon-“

“I don’t like it.” And maybe he’s getting some measure of power back, or maybe it’s because he’s been spending so much time with him, but Jon knows exactly what to say to get what he wants. “Don’t make me come back here to find you. Please.”

And Martin agrees. Just as Jon knew he would.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin takes him home. Jon isn’t sure that he actually asked, but Martin doesn’t seem to want to leave him and he’s not going to tell him no, not when he still feels a little light headed from spending too much time in another power’s domain. He senses that he used a bit too much of his own power to get there – both to find Martin and to know how to reach him – and that is adding to his fatigue.

The farther away they get from that place the better he feels. By the time that they are seated on Jon’s ratty sofa – an old futon he got in university that he still hasn’t gotten rid of – eating takeaway and  talking about whatever Basira might be up to, he feels almost himself again.

He tells Martin everything, of course – everything but the parts that would most pain him to hear. Martin listens quietly, toying with his silverware, his eyes fixed on Jon’s face.

“I don’t know what she’s doing but I know it isn’t good,” Jon finishes. “Nothing to do with Elias can be.”

“And you really haven’t tried to find out?”

“I said I wouldn’t.” Martin nods, but his face twitches, and Jon narrows his eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that.” Martin puts his hands up. “I just – it doesn’t sound like you.”

Jon surprises himself by laughing. “No, I suppose not.” He sighs. “I do want to look, I just –“

“Want her to trust you.”

“Yeah.”

Martin hesitates. “I could – I could try to find out,” he offers, and Jon wants to say yes. He hates not knowing, hates this feeling that whatever Basira is doing is going to have repercussions that none of them have thought of – but he knows that Martin doesn’t want to. It would break something if Jon said yes, not just between Martin and Basira, but between the two of them, and he doesn’t want that.

“No,” he says, forces out really, fighting hard against the part of himself that wants so desperately to know. It’s almost worth it for the way Martin smiles at him, like he’d never doubted that that would be the answer. Jon doesn’t know why Martin believes in him so much, and he doesn’t want to look. He’s afraid that if he looks he’ll find out that it isn’t him that Martin thinks is this good but some creation of his own mind. He wants so badly to believe that there’s something in him worth believing in.

“You have to trust us, Jon,” Martin says. “I know it’s difficult, but-“

“I do trust you,” Jon says. He sighs. “I trust that Basira is doing what she thinks is best, even if she’s wrong. And I trust that Melanie no longer wants me dead. Probably.”

He starts to laugh, but then Martin’s hands are cupping his face, drawing it forward. He holds him tenderly, like he’s precious, kisses him like he never wants to do anything else. Jon sighs against Martins mouth and lets himself fall into the kiss, lets his mind empty and his fingers curl into Martin’s jumper. He can’t remember anyone ever kissing him so reverently, and something in him opens to it, reaches back. His chest goes tight and it's suddenly a little hard to breathe, but he doesn't want to stop.

They wind up sprawled on the uncomfortable futon, watching some documentary on Jon’s laptop that he’d started ages ago when things were simpler. It doesn’t matter; neither of them are really paying attention. Martin is too focused on soaking up the feeling of Jon resting against him; he keeps touching him, running his fingers up his arm or playing with his hand. There’s a part of Jon that wants to flinch away from this much affection, wrong-footed and irritated because of it, but he knows that Martin craves this, craves it more than just about anything else, so he makes himself relax. After a while it stops feeling odd and starts feeling comfortable, and Jon relaxes for real, his body growing pliant and heavy in Martin’s arms. He’d done this with Georgie, long ago, and it was just as pleasant then. He’d forgotten.

Once he’s fully relaxed, it’s easy to let the soft rise and fall of Martin’s chest as he breathes lull him into a semi-doze, his eyelids falling half-mast as he fights against sleep. Martin begins trailing his fingers up his arm again; Jon shivers slightly, then leans farther into Martin, eyes closing.

He dreams of being blind, eyes wide open and staring into nothing. He opens his mouth to scream but finds himself choking instead, the air tasting of earth, dirt thick on his tongue. He tries to breathe through it and can’t, and he panics, scrabbling at his throat. He’s suffocating, choking on nothing, twisting and turning and fighting against an invisible foe weighing him down, thrashing against it to no avail.

He wakes as one of his flailing fists catches Martin in the jaw. Martin’s hands fall off away from his shoulders and Jon, still half-caught in his dream, jerks away, nearly falling off of the futon. His heart is racing. It takes him a few seconds to get his bearings, and when he does he winces. “I’m sorry.”

Martin shakes his head, still rubbing his jaw. “It’s fine. Nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about it? With me, I mean.”

“Not really.”  Jon doesn’t even want to think about his dreams, much less talk about them. Martin gives him an uncertain smile.

“Alright. Is there anything I can do?”

Jon hesitates. He knows what he has to say; knows what will soothe Martin, will make him feel useful, but it still feels like a step he shouldn’t take. He takes it anyway. “You could stay.”

Martin nods, and Jon’s stomach tightens at the shy pleasure on his face. _Not fair_ , he thinks. Melanie’s words, her voice, and he can only be thankful that he isn’t hearing the echo of her calling him a monster.

 _Yet_. Again her voice, and Jon does his best to ignore it as he leads Martin into the bedroom, as they lie uncomfortably in his too-small bed, neither of them knowing quite what to do. Falling asleep together on accident was one thing, this is quite another. Jon steels himself to do something, anything, but then Martin heaves a sigh and turns to his side, the bed shaking with the abrupt movement. He reaches back and finds Jon’s hand, pulls it across his middle. “Do you – is this okay?” he asks, and Jon turns so that he can fit himself against Martin’s back.

“Yes,” he says. It is. He won’t feel confined this way, and he wonders if that’s why Martin chose this position. He feels a brief spike of guilt – this isn’t supposed to be about him or his comfort – but Martin’s body is already sinking into the bed, his hand loosening on Jon’s as he begins to slide towards sleep, and he decides it’s better left alone for now.

He still dreams, of course he does. Chest tight and throat clogged, he walks, walks forever on legs that feel like sticks, eyes blind but still searching for any escape from the dark, from the sense of being suffocated by the air itself. He can hear a voice in the distance, mad laughter that sounds like sobs interspersed with occasional begging for someone to please, please stop this, please let me out, but no matter how far he walks it is never any closer. He can’t breathe and he can’t die, and after a while he realizes that the mad, gibbering laughter he’s been hearing is his own. He jerks himself out of the dream, shaking, tears leaking from his eyes, but Martin is resting warm against him, hand still loosely wrapped around his, and it grounds him. He rests his head against the back of Martin’s neck and focuses on breathing until he slips back into sleep, and this time there are no dreams.

___________****__________

The nightmares don’t stop. If anything, they grow worse. Jon is still recording statements but he no longer dreams of them. Something – or someone – else has taken them over. As the days go by, they only get worse, and Jon often wakes himself – and Martin if he is there – with his own thrashing.

Martin winds up taking the brunt of Jon’s frustration and exhaustion. With Basira gone again and Melanie still refusing to speak to him, the only person he has to lash out at is Martin, and he is often too slow to stop himself from saying hurtful things; things that he can see cutting into Martin even if he never gives an outward reaction. Jon is afraid that he can only apologize so many times before it stops working.

If he can’t keep himself from being cruel, he knows that the next best solution would be to scale down their contact with each other until he figures the dreams out, but he doesn’t want to. As hard as it had been in the beginning to have Martin in his space, he’s grown comfortable with it – with Martin, stood in his kitchen and spooning curry onto plates; sitting on his sofa frowning down at a pad of paper or pecking idly at his laptop; in his bed, curled on his side, the sound and feel of him breathing lulling Jon to sleep. Comfortable enough that when he isn’t there – when Peter keeps him working late or Jon can’t be bothered to leave the Archives in time to meet him – Jon finds himself irritable and out of sorts, unable to sit still. He isn’t sure if the nightmares are worse on those nights or if it’s his imagination.

Then one night the dream changes. He is still suffocating, still trying to claw his way out of nothing while mad laughter rings in his ears, but this time he can clearly hear another voice laughing along with his. The laughter has a mad quality to it that unnerves him, frightens him in spite of the laughter he’s been hearing every night for weeks. He knows, suddenly, that whoever is laughing is the one bringing him here night after night. The fear drains away, replaced by anger as he yells around the dirt clogging his throat. “What do you want from me?”

The laughter stops abruptly, but before Jon can hear the answer that he knows is coming, he’s being shaken rudely out of the dream by rough hands on his shoulders, and he opens his eyes to Martin’s worried face.

Jon is still furious; he pushes Martin’s hands off of him and shoves him away, sitting up. “Why did you wake me?” he demands, not even trying to stop the way that the words spill from his mouth, compulsion thick on his tongue.

“I was worried,” Martin answers immediately. “You sounded like you were choking, like you couldn’t breathe, and I thought –“

“Well there’s where you went wrong,” Jon says. So angry. He knows exactly what to say, and he uses the knowledge, wanting it to hurt. “Thinking has never really been your forte, has it?”

He sees the words land; Martin flinches and his face grows tight and pale. Jon feels the odd, manic anger drain from him at that look, and guilt rushes in to replace it, making him feel sick. “Martin,” he says, reaching out, but Martin shifts away from his hand and Jon lets it fall back to his side. “I’m sorry,” he says, barely audible. And he is, but he’s sure that this is it. He’s ruined this like he ruined things with Georgie, like he’ll inevitably ruin them with everyone.

But no. “I know,” Martin gives him a wobbly smile, and when Jon reaches for him again he meets him halfway. “You’re tired. I – I understand.”

And Jon doesn’t mean to look, doesn’t mean to know, but he does anyway. It doesn’t matter how awful Jon is, just as it never mattered how awful his mother was. Martin will always, always make excuses, always try to think the best, because he needs to believe that the people he cares for feel the same. Jon recoils from the new thoughts in his head, wishing them gone. He doesn’t want to know these things. He’s so tired of knowing what he shouldn’t.

“What were you dreaming?” Martin asks finally, hesitant. “Was it-I know the statements-“

“I wasn’t dreaming a statement,” Jon says. “I was dreaming about Daisy.”

Martin’s eyes widen. “Daisy? But she’s –“

“Alive,” Jon says. “She’s alive, and she’s trapped, and I have to help her.”

“Trapped where? Help her how?”

“I-I don’t know. But she’s who I’ve been dreaming of. And it’s my fault she’s there, wherever it is. My responsibility. I have to get her out.” Jon closes his eyes, thinking. “Maybe there’s something in the Archives that can help. A statement or –“ he shakes his head. “Something. Anything. Maybe if I go back to where it happened –“

“There’s nothing there,” Martin tells him. “I went there – after. I was looking for – I needed to – but there was nothing there. Everything was burned away.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “I’ll help you. If you-if you want.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, “I’d like that.” He sighs. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Martin gives him a strained smile. “I don’t think that will be a problem. You didn’t know it was Daisy you were dreaming until you said it, did you?”

“No.” He peers into Martin’s face as best he can in the dim light. “Is that – does it bother you?”

Martin shrugs. “Not really? I mean, it’s not ideal, but I trust you.” He shakes his head. “I would have told you that. You didn’t have to –“

“I didn’t – I don’t mean to,” Jon says. “I can’t control when it happens.”

“Maybe you should practice.” Martin sounds like he can’t believe what he’s saying, but he keeps going in spite of it. “I know you’re trying not to. But it might help? If you learned how to control it. It might make Melanie and Basira relax around you, anyway.” His eyes widen. “Oh,” he says. “Do you think – Basira –“

“I’m trying not to.” It’s said through gritted teeth. The knowledge is there, hovering, just waiting for him to look, but Jon stubbornly keeps himself from doing so. He promised.

Martin nods. “Right. So I’ll just. Worry about that for both of us, then.” He sighs, then stands, releasing Jon’s hand. Jon curls it into a loose fist, missing the warmth of Martin’s fingers. “I’ll go put the kettle on. Then we can get started.”

___________****__________

Jon knows that Melanie’s coming before she enters the room. The mix of rage and terror that she’s feeling is practically saturating her thoughts, and he’s on his feet before he’s aware of it. Martin, seated at his desk, looks at him curiously before following his gaze towards the door just as Melanie bursts in, looking furious. She falters only slightly when she sees Martin where she expects to find him, but it doesn’t take long for her to locate him against the shelves, eyes fixed on her.

“What are you doi-no, you know what? I don’t care. You better come out here. Both of you,” she says, nodding at Martin. “Basira’s back. With Daisy.” Her hands curl into fists. “And Elias.”

“What?” Martin says, dropping his pen. Melanie rounds on him.

“Yeah. And here we all thought that he was going to be locked up forever. Wasn’t that what you said?” She turns her glare on Jon. “And now I can’t even try to kill him because now I’m just as terrified as I am furious, so thank you for that.” She shakes her head. “I knew it was a bad plan. I knew he’d have some way to squirm out of it. I should have clobbered you and cut his throat when I had the chance.”

“Melanie-“

“Don’t. We’re going to go out there and find out how bad this is, and then I am going to find a way to get rid of him for good. And this time I’m not letting either of you stop me.”

“And if he’s not lying? If you die as well?”

“I don’t care. It’s better than having him here, in my head.” She lets out a mirthless laugh. “But I doubt you’d understand why that’s a problem.”

“I haven’t-“

“Oh, please. Spare me. You’re as bad as he is.”

“Stop it,” Martin’s voice is quiet but firm. “That’s not fair; Jon’s not like Elias.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything. He’s-“ she cuts herself off, takes a deep, steadying breath. Her voice is softer when she speaks again; laced with pity that Jon can only hope Martin doesn’t hear. “You haven’t been around, alright? So don’t try to tell me what he has or hasn’t done. Just…don’t.”

“Fine,” Martin says, but there’s a stubborn tilt to his chin that says that it will come up again. “Let’s get this over with, I guess.” He leads the way out of the room. Melanie gives Jon one last dirty look before following, leaving Jon to bring up the rear. He braces himself and follows.

The first thing he sees is Basira. He looks her over anxiously, checking for injuries, but she seems okay. Tired, with dark circles under her eyes and a certain set to her mouth that speaks of long days and longer nights with little rest, but otherwise okay.

Daisy, stood next to her, looks anything but okay. She is in a slight crouch, eyes wild and hands curled into claws. She is covered head to toe in earth, hair tangled and matted with it, the ends of her fingers a mix of dirt and blood. Her face and arms are covered in scratches. He looks into those mad eyes of hers and knows that she did it to herself. Lost in the Buried and unable to dig her way out of the nothing that surrounded her, she’d turned on her own body, clawing and tearing, anything to feel something finally give way beneath her hands. He shudders, and their gaze breaks, leaving only the echo of her panic and rage. 

Standing just behind her is Elias, looking as put together as if he’d never left; as if he’d just popped out of his office to see what all the commotion was about. His eyes are fixed on Jon, running over him again and again, and he can almost feel him poking around inside his skull, reading the last weeks out of his mind like a book. He shudders, and Martin shifts so that they’re standing closer together, arms brushing slightly. Elias doesn’t change expression, but Jon knows he’s noted the shift, and he fights the urge to step away, to put some distance between them. Fights the equally strong one to get in front of Martin, hide him from Elias’s too-knowing gaze. Neither will protect him.

Daisy breaks the silence. “You,” she says, voice thick, muddy. She takes a step towards Jon, a feral light in her eyes, but Elias puts a hand on her shoulder. She squirms but stops her advance, although her eyes remain fixed on Jon.

“Now, Daisy, none of that,” Elias says. “Remember our agreement.” He barely glances at her, but Daisy lets out a small whimper. Basira clenches her jaw and reaches out, wrapping her fingers around Daisy’s wrist and tugging her away from Elias. There’s a moment when it looks like he won’t let her go, then he smiles slightly and releases his fingers, eyes still on Daisy as Basira leads her to a chair and sits her down, deliberately getting in between them and breaking his line of sight. The smile grows before he turns back to look at Jon, who looks away. He doesn’t want to deal with Elias right now. 

“What happened?” He asks Basira, carefully keeping any hint of compulsion out of his voice. She gives him a surprised look, and he offers a tentative smile. After a moment she gives him a small one in return.

“Perhaps Basira would like to get Daisy cleaned up and settled,” Elias says. “I’d be more than happy to fill you in.”

“Pass,” Melanie says. “The less you talk, the better. Come on,” she tells Basira, “I’ll help. If she’ll let me.” She turns her back on Elias and Jon, who knows just how much courage it is taking for her to do it, feels an absurd fondness shoot through him. It intensifies when Martin deliberately steps in front of her, hiding the back that is starting to tremble from Elias’s sight, if not his knowledge.

“Well,” Elias says when the three of them have left, Melanie giving Daisy a wide berth even though the only person she seems to care about at the moment is Basira, “I don’t suppose either of you are interested in hearing my account of events?”

“I’ll wait for Basira, thanks,” Martin says, crossing his arms. Elias smiles.

“I thought so. However, I will need to speak to each of you soon. Consider it a review and an update in one.”

“And Lukas?” Jon asks before he thinks better of it. Elias turns his smile on him, gaze sharpening, and Jon’s skin immediately starts crawling. 

“Peter was a temporary solution while I was…indisposed. That is no longer the case, so he has taken his leave. I’m sure he’d have made his goodbyes, were he the type. I'm afraid your assistant job is no longer available, Martin; I trust you have no objections to returning to your position with us?” Martin nods, and Elias strides out of the room, heading for his office. Jon watches him go, feeling deeply unsettled. He should be glad that Peter Lukas is out of the picture, glad that Daisy is back and isn’t going to try and kill him, and he is, but Elias worries him. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, what his plans are, and his tentative attempts to look yield no further insight. There’s nothing there, and Jon is afraid to look too hard. The door in his mind grows weaker every day, and he doesn’t want to make things worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you have a moment, please let me know what you thought. :)


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